Page 35 of The Faerie Morgana
She sat up. “What is it?”
“The Blackbird is here. He wants to speak to you.”
“Oh.” The last shred of sleepiness vanished, and Morgana swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Tell him I need a moment to wash and dress.”
“I did, Priestess.” Braithe spoke in an unusually small voice.
Morgana raised her eyebrows. “Is something wrong, brat?”
“He is—that is—” Braithe looked down at the robe she had in her hands, the sigil on its thong looped across it. “The Blackbird is angry. Very, very angry.” She looked up again. “He looked as if he might strike me with that staff of his. It’s terrifying.”
“Oh.” Morgana pushed herself up and walked to the washbasin. Her feet were sore, but she was otherwise recovered. She said, “Well. That is not good news, although I know he would never strike you. No doubt he is upset about my shapeshifting because I never told him.” She exhaled a long breath as she bent to splash water on her face. Dabbing her cheeks with a towel, she faced Braithe and tried to speak calmly. “Go and see to Arthur. I will deal with the Blackbird.”
“But why is he angry?” Braithe laid the robe ready on the bed. “What happened?”
“I did something. That is, I failed to do something. I will explain later. Go now, brat.”
When Braithe had left, and Morgana had dressed and woven her hair into two long plaits, she opened the door to her bedchamber. The Blackbird was leaning against the wall opposite the door, his head down, his staff beside him. At the sound of the door, he looked up, and the sight of his face shocked her.
Morgana had hoped Braithe was exaggerating, but this white-lipped, narrow-eyed fury was exactly what her handmaid had described. “Sir,” she began. Her voice faltered, which she hated. She hardened it to stop its shaking. “Sir, listen to me—”
“I will not,” he spat. “I am sending you straight back to the Isle, Priestess. I may never want to see you again.”
“But, sir, why—”
“Why? Have you no idea what disaster you have wrought?”
“A disaster? In what way is my shapeshifting a—”
“The king is dead!”
“The king?” For a moment, Morgana could not think what he meant. “I know he died, but, sir—I did not kill him!”
“You may as well have.” The Blackbird’s voice grated with something like despair. “He went to war without the protectionyouwere supposed to provide!”
For once, the Blackbird stood as straight as he must have when he was young, his shoulders back, his chin lifted. That frightened Morgana more than the fierce burning of his dark eyes. “I made the charm,” she said. “But I—knowing what he planned, I couldn’t—”
“It was not your decision to make!”
“There was no time to consult with you, sir. You did not know what he meant to do.”
The Blackbird’s lip curled behind his gray beard, and he gripped his staff with both hands. Morgana took a step backward. He would not strike Braithe, but she felt the waves of fury and fear emanating from him, and she thought he might actually strike her. “I have warned you about your arrogance over and over again,” he said. “And now, because you thought you knew better than I, because you were so certain you were the one to make the decision, you have changed the course of history!”
“No! Sir, that’s not right,” she said helplessly. “What I saw—Uther meant to betray us. You heard him! You were there to translate for him, and you must have— Even the knights were shocked by it, and they—”
The Blackbird shook his head. “The knights of Camulod would never bend the knee to Rome, no matter what Uther said.”
“But he put them in harm’s way! I saw it. He almost succeeded in surrendering Lloegyr to the centurion! He—he was on the point of—” Morgana shook her head, her thoughts thick and slow. She was desperate to grasp why the Blackbird refused to understand her.
“How does Uther’s death help us to defend Lloegyr?” he demanded.
Morgana clenched her fists at her sides, fighting and then losing the battle for her temper. The effort lasted no more than a few seconds. Her voice dropped, a voice that came from the fount of fury in her own heart and a welling resentment at being misunderstood. “Tell me, sir,” she said, her voice low and hard. “Tell me now. How did Uther’slifehelp Lloegyr?”
“You,” the Blackbird said, in a voice that throbbed with rage, “have no idea what you’ve done, Morgana. Uther is dead, so Arthur must ascend the throne, and I tell you, I warn you— It is not his time! It is too soon!”
Morgana’s voice was every bit as angry as his, tight with fury and anxiety and confusion. “Is Arthur not the true king? Have I been wrong all these years?”
“He is,” the Blackbird said. His voice dropped, and his shoulders suddenly slumped into their usual roundness. “But the proper order is broken, Morgana. I trusted you to play your part, and you have failed.”
